


Comfortable

by PhoenixUnknown



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Come as Lube, Consensual Sex, Dirty Talk, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Porn with some plot???, Power Play positions, Rough Sex, Scratching, animal death mention, animal injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25759195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixUnknown/pseuds/PhoenixUnknown
Summary: A parting breath, "I-I'm cold."Marcechamp finds himself again, eyes drawn to the movement of such soft lips and finds them to be trembling now without the press of his own to still them. The smear of his own dusky lip paint unmistakable against petals."Yes, you're freezing…"
Relationships: Marcechamp Lierresanteau/Francel de Haillenarte
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28
Collections: August Novel Pairing Challenge 2020





	Comfortable

At some point when traversing such mountainous terrain, a downward slope pulled his trek into a tunnel. From the slanting snow of the Coerthas Western highlands pelting the green of his bliaud, to a cavernous maw no less cold, he made his way with just two younger House Knight’s. Only mildly protected from the elements without, he felt no less chilled to the bone in the dark and growing damp caverns. The altitude within seemed only to change minutely, barely enough to even feel it in his ears, but the better part of a morning on chocobo back, swift and true with lanterns lighting the way saw it shift sometimes. The birds were growing tired in a sustained canter, and when they thought to draw to a rest, that is when a dull brownish light reached them from ahead.

Where Francel de Haillenarte was headed, he was expected, having sent askance moons prior before even planning such an event and, the response had seemed enthused and amicable. Upon breaking from the tunnel and into the dull light, they arrive as dust is kicking up from so nearly an arid, mountainous environs. Light is still touching the sky, but the sun is certainly about to be making its way down soon. The dust is not so bad that they cannot see, though it catches on their lashes. The knight’s pull down their helms, and pull shutters over the Chocobo’s eyes, they dare not ask them to fly the remaining distance. Francel pulls down the brim of his cavalier, and it does just enough for him. One should also make no mistake that it was still chill here; as clearly they were in the mountains still, but the distance, and line of them (the mountains) must have protected this place from the everlasting winter set upon Coerthas’ entirety. The sun here could offer some semblance of warmth. 

So then this, this was the Dravanian Forelands? The jutt of rocky crags from the ground, a lift of land unfettered by the sweep of roots which pierced them or seemed to grow from them? The rise of Chocobo trees above their spreading roots as though they were lifting the trees further to the heavens. The ground cover seemed more akin to mosses and lichens, sparse and varying shades of green to brown. The underbrush looked rough and coarse. Strewn about were the remnants of architecture which Francel knew came of an age long neglected in their learnings. Had he the courage to go further than Tailfeather, perhaps he too would be privy to their songs and to their history as the Warrior of Light and their companions which first made this very same trip, were.

As the gently spinning top of the aetheryte came into view, obscured as it was by the dust blowing in, Francel was beginning to feel the spill of it; the dirt and sand down his bliaud. A frustrating thing, but the least of his concerns. The encampment looked properly settled, and at its perimeter two hunters were looking about somewhat wildly, frantic even until they spotted the approaching group and knew them for who they were by the black chocobo steeds. They came forward, rushed, but careful of the blinded birds guided only by their riders. They gathered the leads up for Francel and his Knight's, leading them into the encampment and letting the buildings disrupt some of the swirl of dust and dirt. 

Without a doubt, he was happier to be dismounting, certain soreness looming at his rear, literally. He resists the urge to stretch and rub out his limbs, the wind is still kicked up, and the hunters are eager to shelter the birds. There is one that wishes to show him away, likely his final destination. Knights torn, one resolves to stay with the birds and help them ungear in the stables, the other follows where Francel is hastily led.

Inside, it is warmer, and Francel is glad to be out of the biting wind, sand no longer nipping at his heels. An elezen had been waiting, tall and somewhat imposing. Well muscled and dark skinned under the sun. The furs draped around him well groomed, but well worn, and the peek of tattoos unmistakable. His hair is long, but fairly kept and pulled back. Francel felt the eyes of appraisal just as he had been. Then, arms held out in a welcoming gesture, he lets loose an inviting smile then; Francel relaxes more. 

"Some would say it is bad luck looming on the horizon. Rest assured m'lord, this is normal."

Francel takes off his cavalier, feather in poor repair now which he could afford to fix at a later date, instead walks with this new hunter to the table near the rear of the building. This building also held several lofts for sleeping, each appeared properly cleaned and made, ready for its next occupant. The sheets seemed worn however from their uses and washes aplenty. 

"Then, I know my time of judgement has been delayed a moment longer. Leaving that is, to your area expertise."

The elezen grins, it is toothy, and somewhat sharp. Then, they sit across from each other, the darker only a second behind Francel who helped himself to a chair. The younger hunter which had followed him in brought them both water, which Francel thanked him graciously for under the watchful eye of their leader apparent. His knight had posted himself steadfast at the door.

"Unpredictable sometimes, but not uncommon. Fairer than you are used to, I suspect." 

"You have the right of it, then, I presume you are Marcechamp…" perhaps expecting of a title, and last name as the letters borne had neither.

He gets none, "Just Marcechamp."

"Master Marcechamp,' he says it so sincerely and politely, the hunter damn near doesn't know what to do-such a title never used before. "I know it is getting late, but I should like to get some important questions out of the way before you take your rest," Well, he's already taking papers from a firm travel case anyways, a travel quill easily inked and papers shuffled so the blank ones were on top. 

"Go ahead, nothing wrong with a head start."

A smile. "Do you lack in basic necessities such as; clean water, stable food supply, or clothes."

And such is what they discussed. No, a stream runs the middle and ‘round of camp and provides clean spring water. There is a small garden but it's mostly supplemental and not year round, most is hunted. While fresh linens would be nice, there's enough proficiency to make something, usually-or keep what is present in usable repair. 

Francel's gloved fingers look long when pressed against the parchment flat, elegant as he must hold the quill near daintily, barely suitable for elezen hands. His lines were straight, looped in some places, slanting forward in others, but it was all very neat if lacking a discernable pattern. Perhaps his train of thought dictated the lean of his pen? State of emotions? Furrowed brows and pursed peach lips showed he to be hard at work in mind, at the very least. 

"Tell me, why do you want to do this?" Marcechamp interrupts the young lord, who taps the inked pen on the paper a few times, leaves the sentence to run off, ellipses-which looked as if it were turning from a list into objective logistics, anyways.

"Well, why wouldn't I? What makes you any less important than tho--'

Whatever he had been about to say was cut off by shouting just outside, a wretched screeching reverberating, unmuffled by their wooden walls. Had Francel never heard the cry of a dying Chocobo from a proving grounds accident, he might have thought it the same. Nay, not a dying bird yet, but a wild and distressed one. Marcechamp was quick to his feet soon as the first shouts began, Francel rushing to follow him outside. Thankfully the wind had died down, and though the area looked thoroughly windswept, there were no lasting clouds of dust sweeping through.

Lucky for the cart which had been hauled through the camp, just to the bridge. A special stretcher on it where a quavering chocobo was stretched out on and several hunters were sent to heave it from the cart and onto the ground. The two of them cross the bridge and Francel finds upon approach the ailing bird, which has been caught in a jumping bear trap. Wretched things which Francel had found in a heap on another cart on the other side. Marcechamp’s crosses his arms, face turned to a glower and not just from him, but the rest of the hunters as well looms from they a dark cloud. With their bows, and their knives, they availed them not at all to get close to the bird which snapped and reared back its head only then to defend itself as they would try to close in on it’s injured leg. Seeping with blood, onto the gurney, no matter how they wished to help. The bird struggles, growing weaker in its warbles. 

“Lest you think this to be our doing, rest assured, it is not.” Marcechamp manages through clenched teeth. It does ease Francel, though. However, he is not guilty for the thought. “We are not the only hunters here, but our mode is live, uninjured capture, in which we break them in and provide them to the Holy See. However, there are those which hunt them for other reasons…” 

Francel imagines a dead chocobo is only good for eating at that point, and whatever else could be done with its feathers. It brings a palor over him, and he has to look away. 

“You need to calm it, as with sleep or--” he supplies, eyes drawn back to the growing spatters of red ruining their canvas spread, ‘it isn’t yet ready to go, look how it fights. Once it stills then you can break open the trap.” Francel tries to slip in his optimism, able to tell when Marcechamp was beginning to think it might be necessary to put it down-sad as it may be.

“We lack the casters to do so.”

Which was all Francel needed to hear, moved thus, unable to watch on--nearly tears the ties off his bliaud to take it off, the white cotton of his fitted button-down left. The green and felt of it meets Marcechamp’s chest with a 'whump' where Francel shoves it at him, before meeting the chocobo head on. He can feel the beat of one of its wings against his side as he falls to his knees. Exasperation at even their lack of an anesthesia is distracting enough for the headbut to his chest to go nearly unnoticed. Winded only a bit, keeps his arms around the head which nearly dwarfs his chest, the bird struggles then in his lap, though weaker as it is blinded by the arms about it… Blood from its beak where it had tried to bite off it’s own leg smears across the dusty white of his cotton, though Francel is uncaring as he hums deeply, tries to shush it like one might a child. Marcechamp holds back, muscles coiled with the unnatural desire to haul that damnable boy _back_. A chocobo bite was no joke, but he had the animal such that it couldn’t open it’s beak even, unrelenting though exhausting. The bird was tired, growing limp just enough that finally Francel loosened his arms and leaned back to look down at its face. A black eye gazes up at him from his arms, wet and inky but conscious and intelligent. 

“There…” Francel whispers, moving so that a hand traces from the ridge of its beak across the thin feathers of its cheek to it’s head. “For you... to descend into sweet repose.” Blue aether swells, the chocobo trills nervously, softly, struggles briefly again before relaxing at last and falling to sleep in measures against him bodily. 

All around the hunters seem to finally breathe out as one before descending upon them, first upon the trap upon its leg, and then, Marcechamp at his arm, hauling him back to his feet and away from the bird. They were versed in field aid, and would assist from there. Francel could feel the exhaustion seeping in from long travels and casting magic, nevermind the weak level of spell it had been. He finds himself collapsed back against the taller hunter’s chest, the climb of adrenalin finally falling from its peak. Bone deep weariness finally sets in.

“Are you done trying to admirably do everything great, all at once, my lord?”

It reverberates from Marcechamp’s chest, he feels it against his back more than hears it in his ears. Francel jerks away, a stumbled step or two and puts a hand to his heart as he catches his breath. 

“Aye… My apologies. I just thought--”

“Banish it, then. This is good enough, the sun is setting, and blood is leeching.”

Francel turns about, finds Marcechamp a solid wall before him, the sun descending behind he, and the grit of dirt, sweat, and blood as an itch beneath his shirt. The smile on Marcechamp’s face is roguishly crooked. 

“Cold water awaits.”

As it was, the hunter was not jesting, he snagged linens on the way and then he really did take Francel to the rocky slope of a stream where moved frigid water, and where a small building blocked as much a view as possible. Marcechamp was still holding the outer bliaud, but deposited it on a boulder when he slipped closer to the water's edge. Francel stood unsure where he was, watching Marcechamp untangle his hair from its ties and clips and began on his furs. He was bare chested, fur slung across a green Bliaud on stone when he turned to Francel, his smile still lopsided, for he had sensed such stillness and knew the lord's predicament. A commander, sure-at one point, but one treated specially and given extra considerations. The expectations were different. Marcechamp knew when he looked upon pinkened ears; that Haillenarte Knights had never had the honor he was to have.

"Need help?"

Francel responds not at all, shakes his head and seems defeated as he lets loose the buttons of this shirt. His skin is pale and peach under brisk wind, a sparse dotting of freckles here and there over his shoulders, the ones along the bridge of his nose and cheekbones more plentiful, though exceptionally lighter. He was lovely, and looked so soft and supple to the touch. From the soft lines of his chest and belly, to the subtle flare of his hips and the layer of flesh which teased for a soft hold there. Francel began to burn under the gaze which watched him, bent to pull off his gaiters and subsequently the leather padded gaskins, showing shapely legs, soft thighs, and what Marcechamp knew to be a rear well cushioned. 

He manages not to lick his parched lips when Francel shifts there nervously in his smallcloths, that space between his legs minutely compact, perhaps stirred under such an intrusive gaze-small and… Marcechamp almost let's lose a growl. Knowing better, turns to hold an arm out towards the water before shucking the ties of his trousers with the other and following the rushed lordling close behind, completely naked. 

Francel makes it far enough into the deeper parts of the water such that it comes below his groin. The hem of his white smallcloths gain some transparency, but not enough. He's stopped there with a hiss, and Marcechamp freezes behind him. He's holding his shirt, staring down at the blood staining it before he dunks it under the gentle, wily flow of the water. The cold water brings out some of the stain, and Marcechamp finds it interesting that Francel would be willing to scrub out a stain, when surely a few coins would afford him another.

"The stain won't lift like this." Marcechamp tells him, close at his shoulder. 

"It is a waste not to try. Well… I know there is something back home which can lift this…" it seems offhanded. Mind elsewhere as he weakly wrings it out and turns, only to gasp and nearly stumble backwards as he notices how close Marcechamp stands now, staring down at him too, too intensely. He takes Francel by the arm with one hand on reflex to hold him in place and save him a chilly topple. Slowly with the other, takes the damp bundle and tosses it back to dry shore. 

Frozen in place, he dares not move even when the hunter let's loose his hold to lean in, brings hands to the surface at his rear and cup water into them. First spilling handfuls over his shoulders, which causes Francel to huddle in somewhat, shoulders pulled inward as water spills frigid down his spine and chest. With every little rivulet, the grime is carried away. Then, bolder still this hunter cups water in his hands while dragging them up the back of his thighs, water is pulled over the fabric of his arse, where flesh is lifted with large hands and where most of the water soaks through, and then it's just his wet hands sliding up Francel's back and pressing him closer.

Had he ever seen something so interesting before? Someone so damn soft beneath his hands, and yet taking a chocobo's headbutt to the chest (albeit a weak one, but one nonetheless)? Insists on wasting as little time, and as little resource as possible? Conscientious of status, but painstakingly elevating all he spoke to, somehow, someway-such that it seems almost natural to think perhaps you truly are equals? Marcechamp was terribly intrigued; interest piqued in a lordling willingly come his way, met with the wilds and his audacity, yet still had the nerve to continue looking up into his eyes… damn-damn him…

He could not help it, could not stop himself for leaning down and finding rosy tiers to descend upon. Found them pliant to him, soft and yielding and parted with a gasp that oh, _oh_ how he wished to indulge in them. Perhaps his own adrenalin had been shot to witness how Lord Francel saved them a bird when they had been woefully unprepared, is that what made his blood boil despite the cold water? Pulling back and finding a dazed Lord bent back against the insistence of his own excitability, hands a brace along the fine curve of his slim back.

A parting breath, "I-I'm cold."

Marcechamp finds himself again, eyes drawn to the movement of such soft lips and finds them to be trembling now without the press of his own to still them. The smear of his own dusky lip paint unmistakable against petals.

"Yes, you're freezing…"

With newfound gentility, he manages to urge Francel back to shore with a hand brushing his hip. And, only after Francel had scrubbed wet hands through dusty blond to reveal a healthier shine. Marcechamp however, lingering behind to splash his face with icy water and scrub the lines of red shadow from weary eyelids before wading behind him, and back to shore. The young lord was shivering as expected when he rushes to dry off. Marcechamp adequately steeled and more or less nonplussed by the chill, dried himself off fast, and then--bundled Francel in the drape of his furs. Overlarge, and they did nothing to hide the red which climbed down lightly freckled cheeks, to even lighter freckled shoulders, open to the air as the fur wrapped mostly around his arms. Warm enough. 

“Your packs are in the cabin, and hot food will be waiting for you. Wear this for now.”

Inside the fire was set to blazing in a hearth. It glowed and burst heartily, emmenating warmth worked on drying the shirt and smallcloths draped close to it. Francel was growing drowsy by the fire, the flats of his feet raised towards it bare and gently arched. Everything about him was unfairly pretty, from those big blue eyes, to the curve of his feet and point of his toes. Marcechamp feasted in the sight, and contented himself with it. Such softness was not known in the forest, and after he left, would be missed. But for now, for now he can look, and laugh as the younger tilts a little sideways. Bowl empty in his lap and barely held in place. He takes these from his dozing companion and urges him to wakefulness.

“Up now, boy.” He growls low, and Francel looks up at him bleary eyed. “Go get dressed, and climb into that top bunk nearest the table.” He takes the furs from off Francel’s shoulders who offers no further response but a half-repressed yawn and a comfortable stumble to the table edge. His pack is at the bedside, but looks over his shoulder to find Marcechamp sitting in the wood chair now, with his back to him, furs in his lap and being brushed out and tended to diligently. 

Freshened and still glowing with the fire’s warmth, seals it beneath his gown and the sheets. They’re not musty, as tended to as they looked when first observed. He relaxes into the limp pillow, exhausted. Everything blackens at the edge, even the memory of a mouth descended upon his, the brush of stubble along his chin, and the prick of nails in his arm.

* * *

Sometime during the night, the wind begins to kick up; at first just a swirl of dust and a gentle rattling of shutters and shingles over their relatively sturdy shacks. And yet, when Marcechamp stills, breathes out once, closes his eyes, breathes out twice--stillness over takes him, and in the distance feels the roll of dark clouds and the tremble of thunder. The hair on his arm awash with electricity that pricks, only noticing it when he tunes in to it. The hum of the aetheryte outside a buzz in his sensitive ears becoming muted as odd weather rolls in. He sits up in the lower bunk, peers up at the bottom of the bed above he, where rests one lordling, then casts a gaze to a window, darkness growing deeper even as the morning approaches. Sleep was ever hard for him, and there was no use in fighting the new found wakefulness. He reaches for his furs at the end of the bed, beginning to slide comfortably into them as he swings his legs over the cot. Lord Francel stirs not as Marcechamp bustles to the fire and begins pressing out coffee in his tin press, with a tin kettle until his dented tin cup is filled to the brim with inky dark coffee; potent. Makes him shake his head and roll his shoulders at the first sip, a shock that blows the sleep from his eyes, and chases the weariness of cold from his bones. Woke his stiff joints enough so he could put his hair back and see past the unruly morning mop he’d had.

At first he’d thought to stay awake and make sure none of the hunters came to pester their pretty eyesight of a guest, certainly he’d caught a few longing gazes. However, Francel had proved himself more than a mere sight and perhaps that respect earned him his privacy-maybe also the fact Marcechamp had firmly planted himself at the lords’ side was deterrent enough. For halfway through the night none had so much as approached the door, and Marcechamp felt unbothered enough to slip into the cot below, though the one above near too good a temptation for the warmth and softness which surely awaited. Alas that the one Francel might need protection from being himself, for the tiny taste he’d gotten in the icy cold spring not near enough. 

A dreary dark grey light hit the window, it took to Marcechamp’s second cup of black coffee for morning to finally alight. Drowned out by the slow roll of gentle thunder and the gentle tap, tap, tap of the first fat drops of rain. It rang on some of the metal parts of the roof, sung more hollow and friendly on the wood, the wind rustled the brush which covered all of it. The pitter patter turned to a steady fall, rhythmic and serene. Marcechamp felt at peace as he listened, gaze cast far out the window as he watched the grey turn darker as the rain fell thicker in slants. In the distance lightning filtered through the trees. In some parts of the camp, it fell in rivulets where it pooled in the treetops before the weight flipped leaves and branches and dumped it in buckets below. 

Francel was pulled from his slumber at so odd a sound, found himself sitting near bolt-upright at the clattering and the hum of thunder in the distance. Wide-eyed and confused at first in his exhaustion. He looks up at the ceiling, blinking owlish, bewildered when he looks around before noticing he’d had Marcechamp’s complete attention; brow raised with the rest of his face hidden behind a steaming cup. Francel flushed before the gentle rattling of the wind at the door had his complete attention. Elation seemed to be coming over him, and Marcechamp realized belatedly; it’s been years since Francel likely has heard or seen rain. 

“You can go look.” 

Marcechamp offers knowingly, never tearing away his eyes from Francel. The lord gives him another look, and in the gaze he can see him fight that excitement. Yet, the lord doesn’t fight the instinct for long, kicks back the thin sheets and takes easily to the ladder, and, despite being shorter than Marcechamp himself, still takes only one step to the middle of the ladder before bare feet (and legs) step to the floor. Marcechamp is still blessing the sight of those shapely legs, and that blessed nightgown which afforded him the delectable sight by the time Francel has reached the shack door and pulled it open. The wind twists the gown about his thighs, a playful billow about so willowy a form that it makes Marcechamp unsteady and have to swallow down his thirst with a gulp of bitter brew that he may shudder for a different reason. Canting back his head so that he is staring up at the ceiling. He imagines a gentle spray collecting in flaxen locks ruffled under the wind like dew. Knows that man’s hair would draw like silk through his calloused fingers had he the chance to run his hands through it. 

The rain remains steady, Francel drinks in the sight ‘fore the cold becomes too much for his bare legs and he must draw the door shut again. But he hears it, a different kind of music as it plummets through leaves and branches, pummels the roof and the side of the building. There is a heaviness of joy in his heart. He is cold, and his skin pricks with goosebumps, but Marcechamp’s gaze had warmed him, and his smile never melts away. 

Marcechamp’s attention is drawn back to Francel as the younger pulls out the chair across from he, and settles in by carefully drawing the gown beneath his legs so his skin never meets the chair. Beneath the table, Marcechamp imagines smooth fingers neatly folded together.

“Were you unable to sleep?”

Lord Francel asks him kindly, there is still a thickness to his voice, hinted at wakefulness come too soon. Marcechamp is charmed and smiles.

“Enough,’ he tells him honestly, ‘we tend to sleep in rotation. Even with the opportunity to sleep a full schedule, I couldn’t have had I even wanted to.” 

A thoughtful look is cast over Francel, for he was not unfamiliar with posts. Yet, he had never had to do such a thing. Certainly only planning, administrative, and financial running had been his forte and thus Stephannot had never wanted him to do otherwise--but looking at Marcechamp, certainly there was a darkness about his eyes, but he seemed otherwise alert and rested. 

A scrape of metal across the table gives him a jolt, and he looks down to the dark hand which had pushed the tin cup of coffee across the table to him. It was still hot and steamed heartily. Francel looks back up at Marcechamp, giving him another one of those blue-eyed blinks that Marcechamp seems to puff up for. 

“Afraid of a little germs from a hunter like me?”

Marcechamp taunts, and Francel only tilts his head with such open curiosity.

“Nay, Master Marcechamp. I merely do not want to take what is yours.”

The man barks out a laugh then, shakes his head and flips his hand at Francel. "T’is proffered! What, do you think we to be so poor?" The lord gives him a one-shoulder shrug before hooking bare fingers through the tins loop and sipping the coffee. It honestly smells so much more aromatic and earthy than it tastes, but he can also tell the hunters do not prefer this for it’s flavor, for it certainly has a ‘zing’ to it that makes him want to shake out his body. He gives it one more meager sip before setting the cup down, cushioned with his pinky finger so it makes not a sound upon the wood before sliding it back to Marcechamp. 

“No,” Francel begins again, the bitterness of piss poor coffee lingers on his tongue, ‘I am far less concerned about your perceived filthiness, sir.” And, Francel seems to look across the table to Marcechamp from beneath lush lashes, slender pointer finger tapping against his plush bottom lip. 

The rain comes down harder, the lightning in the window illuminating, and the thunder steady and rumbling deep drowns out the trills of the birds and chocobos stabled safely around the camp. 

“Of course you’re not, you poncy little shi--’

Marcechamp nearly knocks over the chair he’d been slouching in when he stands, near to a prowl around the table, just a short distance before finally sinking fingers into silken hair-just as he’d imagined. Some dampness lingered for Francel’s foray at the doorway, brushed away as his fingers twist into flax and he guides Francel partway up from his seat, leans the rest of the way down so that their mouths may meet. Marcechamp is nearly overbearingly forward, meets soft tiers with tongue first before lips, just a slip within before Francel is shaking already from his partial stand to meet him. The slide of their lips together, Marcechamp working over him hungrily, starved as he twists his tongue along Francel’s and bites at his lips when breaths are taken. Francel proved unperturbed at the stolen kiss in the creek, and now, clearly interested in his very seat. 

There are hands gliding along the fur slung across his shoulders and chest. Those hands find the peek of skin beneath and seek out their warmth. They’re nearly unbearably soft where they stroke along his skin, caress tattoos and earned scars. They raise a growl bordering on feral from him, have him gathering up those hands in his larger grasp and pulling the other fully from his seat so they stand chest to chest and sharing in their breathlessness. Foreheads pressed together, mouths a graze apart, humid against their chins and cheeks, undaunted both at the worn taste of morning and hinted black coffee. Even then, Francel tasted sweet, when the sip he'd taken was worn away by ravaging tongue. Lips still wet when Marcechamp finally took his mouth off him, and left the man looking thoroughly kissed sideways. 

"To the bed with you."

Marcechamp's voice is low and thick with want, he has to clear his throat so that every word isn't a growl. Francel stumbles there with Marcechamp at his back. His knees barely hitting the thin mat before he feels the hot press of the other man at his back. Kneed forward enough that Marchechamp can comfortably cage him in on all fours, feel the press of his chest against his back, and the bulge of his growing want against his thighs. Marcechamp leans back so he can slide the hem of the night gown off Francel's thighs, pushed up his back to reveal the gentle curve of his spine and the indent of dimples at his rear. Wants to twirl his tongue around them but instead takes handle of those cushioned hips and squeezes, dips his thumbs into those dimples and holds Francel tight against his groin. 

Gods but he was already achingly hard, forefend that he did not hardly have to play to get himself excited. Yet still dragged calloused hands down silk thighs and trail back up the inside. Let fingers dig into plentiful flesh and, let one hand cup the neatly packaged bulge between. For Francel fit entirely into his palm, diminutive even in its arousal; Francel let's lose a beautiful keen, repressed in his shame, joyous in the pleasure brought as fingers caressed and stroked and squeezed through the white of his smallcloths. Marcechamp felt that he could rut here forever, even with the tight pinch of trousers, but knew there to be more pleasure had in naked flesh. Let elongated nails pluck the fabric from Francel's hips to his knees and ankles to dangle forgotten off a foot. Let loose his trousers so heated flesh could drag downwards between dimpled rear and his thumbs spreading apart one round and raised arse. His cock cradled between supple cheeks eliciting one very appreciative groan, and a soft sigh from he below. Francel resting on forearms, head bent forward and long neck exposed, the curl of flax at his nape a bare tickle. Licking his lips and letting the long jut if his length dip between Francel's thighs, a press against his tight balls, drawing out an unsteady sigh.

"Won't you take hold in those pretty hands of yours, my lord?" Marcechamp bows over Francel, the weight of his cock a downward dip which Francel can barely fit in his hands between the two of them. That even just touching the hunter reason enough for him to groan beneath his breath. "Very good." Marcechamp near purrs against one long ear, delights in the youngers shudder and tightened fingers as they are held firm together, aligned flush. 

Francel knows his desire well enough, the jerk of his wrist is minute, for Marcechamp rocks his body with fuller thrusts. His hand cannot move the full length without releasing his own, so Marcechamp grunts against his shoulder where his mouth and teeth graze, letting the dry slap of hips against sweet thighs bear the brunt of his pleasure. And it works with every pass of the thick head through Francel's fist, shaft squeezed between silk thighs, for his fingers become slick not just with his own pre, but Marcechamp's too. Rests his head on his bent forearm and gasps audibly into the sheets as his belly warms and his arse raises for Marcechamp. 

"Mmh, good-so good. You'll be a quick one, won't you?" Marcechamp nips below his ear, the flesh soft and sensitive, Francel gasps out again, a hiccup of breath. "Don't let go when you do, you'll need mine too…" 

Francel seems to wind up even more then, forehead pinned harder to his arm, teeth grit. "You're right..!' he heaves out helplessly with pitched breath, 'I...I can-t!" The sound pinches off with a click of teeth as Francel rocks back against him on strained thighs. The seep of cum against his fingers trapped when he rolls his hand forward to become a fisted wall. "Gooood…" Marcechamp growls, the grind of his glans against the mess of Francel's palm just as pleasurable as being thrust through soft digits. He drags himself upright, sets his hands on Francel's thighs to push them tight together and listens to him keen as his sensitive prick is insistently stroked by his own. Listens to him quibble and croon into his arm until finally with a long drawn growl between his teeth, adds his load to Francel's sticky handful. 

Ah, but to be so pent up. His dick a touch sensitive, but his balls still full and his head still light. He can see the breathlessness in the way Francel's rib cage expands. Looking down along the length of him, the gown hitched high to his shoulder blades, bunched below his arms. Gods but he was pretty.

"We're not done, but-you knew that didn't you?"

Francel gulps a huge breath and nods against the bed. 

"You'll have to do a little bit more work, lovely." He slides the reminders of his claws down Francel's arched spine and delights in how he raises to his touch. 

Then, he pulls away from between unfairly warm thighs to the cool air. Must take his eyes off his lordling and make the distance to the door though somewhat lethargic to ensure it is locked. The creek of the loft behind as Francel turns on his back and lays out proper against the bed, neck cradled by pillows. Tongue bit, a reminder to muffle himself as he lets his legs fall wide apart, heels dug into the mattress and fingers with their greedy reach trailing the mess of fluids made of a pretty hand around his part. Tongue in cheek turns to teeth on lip as he eases in two fingers at first. It’s a jump, but he feels his time is limited, and resources scarce to waste them on one finger. The stretch is uncomfortable, for hardly he plays with himself like this, daring and just on the verge of being too much. But the trail of seed down his knuckles a sweeping spread eventually, copious enough combined, and he feels so incredibly dirty to use it like this. Himself… and Marcechamp--urging this part of him within, coaxing him about as a slickened spread against intimate inner walls. His face remains rosy red thinking about it, fingers twisting at the knuckles, urging to the last to thrust against himself. Francel puts one arm over his face, head turned as he bears his own palm upon himself, teasing a third at his tried entrance, the butt of his palm a steady grind against taut balls. His prick stirred where it lay pointed towards his hip, blushed petal red to the tip and swelling again in due time.

Marcechamp took to prowling the front end of the cabin soon as the lock was silently laid. He knew there had to be something about that would ease his trespass, because surely there was no way his girth could pass so sweet an ass on their seed alone. He found it in the form of scent less glycerin for the hands, hell a dab of this and the path could be tread endlessly--He turns with the sealed bottle in hand and nearly finds his knees. Marcechamp's mind barren of all but Francel when he finds the lord spreading himself so diligently wide on three fingers, flushed and sweating and hips poised off the bed when riding his own hand.

Absolutely not, Marcechamp could wait no longer and would finally partake in the oasis before him, as a man promised a sip of water after being left to the desert; descends. The pale blue of his eyes deepen, darkened with a deep seated lust. His furs and loose trousers hit the floor as his knees find the bed again, pulling Francel's feet out from beneath him, and receiving a startled burst of breath for his efforts. The hunter is more poised on his haunches with Francel's rear pulled up his thighs, legs pushed apart for his wandering gaze. Francel affords spread fingers of his free hand to briefly entertain hiding his immodesty.

"Please,' Marcechamp rumbles, bites the cap of the lotion off, 'like I couldn't see the way your spoilt little hole quivered for it when you let me rut upon you as like a feeble doe." 

Francel fair burns, fire alight his cheeks and ears, and his following groan to be talked to in such a way; tell tale. Marcechamp is sneering knowingly, crooked again, and too confident. Gods but he was so… _primal._ Felt the filth in his words stir the heat in his loins and near shorn the restraint of his decency to not moan like a common--just for his words. All they were…

It's just a small line of it, nearly clear, but it's thick; whatever it is that Marcechamp spreads on the head of his cock. The layer of it is slick when used copiously. For good measure, and to tease Francel all the more, pushes back on the others knees to tilt his ass up more so he can slide the tip over his aching part. The substance is almost gelatinous, the distraction paltry as Marcechamp presses in on him then, and the tight ring gives in to the plunge of his cocks’ bulbous head. Francel gives out a wavering cry, muffled when he bites his lips again, hips arching up and shoulders digging into the frame below. Marcechamp follows him relentlessly, hand firm on his waist, the other under his knee holding him open and apart. Marcechamp has plunged in completely, and Francel makes a fine arch away from the bed for it. Mouth a startled 'oh', eyes rolled back, then to be shuttered. 

"Gods,' Marcechamp swears on baited breath, 'but you don't take as much dick as you act, do you?"

Francel is tortuously tight around his cock. The hunter raised on his knees to follow Francel so that the smaller cannot lift himself free of his spearing; and so the pressure cannot be alleviated. And, Marcechamp too, follows the elegant arch made of his body, drags nails in red lines down his peach skin, pricks budding nipples sensitive when taking to his heaving chest. Fingers tracing the lightest of scratches down sensitive sides and flexing breathless ribs in welts that would fade by the next light. His hands find the very subtle pinch of his waist and swell of hips and revels in the soft handful of flesh he gets for each. Menphina but he was starved for the soft form of his lord, for the plush thighs which cushioned his hips, and the even softer arse he bucks against, hips his fingers can greedily sink into as he pulls Francel onto his cock relentless, grinds deeply into him for he is not quite ready to withdraw, even if that means sheathing himself home again. 

Ah, but he felt so parched to ravish him… then presses the younger fully against the bed and spreads his legs uncompromisingly wide with his own knees. Bearing upon Francel's thighs and buried so deep within that his balls rested hot against his cheeks. Francel's groin ached to be stretched, groaned as he felt so impossibly filled to the brim, thick and hard and stretched delicately thin. So damn glad the door had been locked for surely had someone come in for the sounds he was making, the sight visible for all; the way his tightness gripped Marcechamp's cock so greedily for how exposed he was. 

Arms, muscular and secure hooking under his shoulders and pulling him close as every grind and roll begins to turn to a buck, a steady rutting then evolves which has him whimpering and whining low. His own blunted nails biting at the coiled muscles down Marcechamp's shoulder blades. A snarl breaks way, rising groans,grunts, and growls as Francel squeezes him, as dampness spreads for the way he leaks pre in abundance of his eagerness right into him. 

Blessed, to damn near spread him like this as if to breed him. Unadulterated ecstasy to take him so raw, and wild. That he was so unable to move for the unforgiving embrace Francel was locked into. His moans climb, the slickness grows, so too does Marcechamp's thrusts, from forward grinds to a downward plumet. The pulse of his thick length guiding him as he sought out higher pleasure. As Francel's tightly coiled body parted way for him, from cockhead to bulging base, swiftly plunging in and muffling voluminous outcries with his mouth and teeth when the thunder was not frequent and clashing enough. The slap of flesh a filthy reminder of how animalistic his coupling is, wet and inescapable as Francel clung with growing desperation, immobile and swept away in lustful, body wracking tremors, that knot within which Marcechamp thrusts against, ruts against, and presses upon, electrifying. His prick pinned against his belly and Marcechamp, a growing trail where he dribbled and dripped.

"Mmnh, you sound so sweet.' it's a growl that Francel croons to hear, 'fucked into a mess, you look gorgeous, _my lord._ "

The loft groans for its mistreatment and Francel thinks surely his hips will split. Surely, his belly would bulge. But locked together, neither could see it. Just the strained lopsided eager smirk on Marcechamp's sweat damp face. His balls felt fit to explode, but he could already tell Francel was hurtling towards the end first, unexpected for how intent on his own emptying he'd been, unrepentant but now exceptionally amorous for how well Francel seemed to be able take his attentions, even _like it._

"You want it that bad?" Marcechamp taunts him, the downward jut of his hips unrelenting, and Francel's seeking, and moaning mouth easing what comforts he could from Marcechamp's jaw and the corner of his lips. Precious. "Oh but I've a load yet to ruin you with, rose." 

Francel is already set aquiver, and he knows--Marcechamp knows that together, the call will be irresistible. 

"Gods, but I want you to take it all!"

"Mar-ce… champ!"

Francel struggles briefly against him, feels the flex of his thighs against his knees. The climb of his moan melodious over the thunder. Cock thrust wholly within, feels the way his insides writhe and wring relentless, that slender body wracked with powerful, full body shudders as wave after wave of hot semen seeps within him. Marcechamp had never felt something so achingly damn good. Eyesight gone white as he climaxes harder than he has ever before. As promised holds Francel tightly and fills that tremulous body to the brim, and even after keeps him comfortably stuffed while the rain drowns out his residual whimpers, and Marcechamp keeps him hidden in the shadow of his arms despite the lightning illuminating the window, trying to highlight the shape the two made pressed into one another. To remain within just a while longer, over-sensitive, but irresistible of the dripping heat his softened cock rested within. Slowly lets up on the painful spread he had held the lord in, but does not unpin his ravaged hips.

“A beast, possessed.”

Francel bites out, all breath and no actual teeth. The propriety fucked right out of him, and exhaustion paved the way for good natured slander. 

“Aye, so it will be until the day you leave.”

Marcechamp tightens his hold, shudders when Francel’s thighs lock about his own and his breath catches. Could feel the residual quiver in his overworked thighs, and grins at such long-lasting after-effects. Francel presses a sweaty forehead against his collar, and flax tickles his chin. 

“Perhaps… not so rough.” 

Francel gets only a rumbling chuckle in response.

* * *

The draw of commotion from outside late one evening drives Marcechamp from his brooding. The winter was no less chill than normal, but after bone aching work he just wanted to lounge by the fire before men decided to crowd the bunks after barely dunking for a bath. Leaning from the narrow doorway, watches in interest as draft chocobo draw a hooded cart right up to the front of his building, the arched canvas has painted the flag of Ishgard, and his gaze lingered a touch overlong on the rose before being drawn to the knights leading. Marcechamp tried with all his might to keep his visage schooled to know of boredom, maybe hint only at careful curiosity-but he knew. He knew what this was.

Lord Francel de Haillenarte making good on his word. 

It was meager, certainly there was no charity here, but it felt good still to see Ishgardian chests here and not passing merchants from the Holy See, convinced to finish a trade for bare necessities that may, or may not be enough. They had sent some beautiful Bo’s, and here was a payment well worth receiving for their work. This was a better contract, a better living. Drawn by a hunter's waving, he lets the knights untether the draft chocobos and lead them to stable, chatting amicably with another of his hunters while he leans into the carts rear to see what is being unloaded. A crate or two of crystals. Self preserving medicines. There are dehydrated goods, and some salted-preserves which would go a long ways, but they would all definitely consume in time. Water-proof rolls of canvas. Caskets of fabrics and--one of his hunters picks up a small box from the crate of fleece he’d just examined. A wax sealed envelope cross tied to the box by a hemp string, written on it’s blank face in wide loops, _‘Master Marcechamp’_.

Curious! He finds the grin cannot be contained, and takes the box with its brown paper wrapping and bow-tied hemp string from the man, pulls the string loose so he can have his letter, and his present. The tip of his thumbnail carefully breaks the perfect tension of the wrapping paper and the sharp tip slips beneath to tear evenly in a fluid sideways swipe. Lifting the paper revealed a nondescript box, unassuming but for the gold lettering denoting a rose tea. It was almost laughable, and a strange gift for ‘heathens’ such as they.

The wax seal on his letter faces the same fate, and with the box of tea careful under his arm, makes his way back to the fireside. The letter he reads in private, though it was clearly written with the possibility of publicly being passed around for it was not formally signed. 

His laugh a startled burst of breathlessness. 

_Dear Master Marcechamp,_

_In hopes that it is not too late._

_Just in case your taste buds need resuscitation._

_With care,_

**_-F_ **


End file.
